


Basement

by inkforhumanhands



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canonical Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Kid!Matt, Physical Abuse, Poison, Stick is a dick, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27241042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkforhumanhands/pseuds/inkforhumanhands
Summary: All of the nerve endings from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers devoted their signals to the transmission of a single sensation Matt was no longer certain could be glossed by the word “pain.”Stick trains Matt in the basement.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Stick
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	Basement

**Author's Note:**

> prompt fill for "poison" for Writer's Month 2020

“You…you _cut_ me.” Matt touched his arm and his hand came back slick with blood. He’d been blinded by radioactive chemicals and so far been hit plenty trying to dodge his mentor’s attacks, but he’d never been cut before. It was a new sensation, his skin splitting that far apart.

“Good job figuring that out, genius.” Stick was the only person Matt had ever heard that somehow managed to infuse his sarcasm with a spit and a growl.

The air shifted as he put his fists back up, whatever blade he had used still invisible to Matt’s senses. Matt moved to match his stance, determined not to let the pain show in his fighting. He could be brave. Stick detested anything less, so he did too.

Stick came for him with a swift kick to the side of his head, and Matt blocked it handily with his non-bleeding forearm. No sooner had he taken care of one threat than another one sped toward him from the other side. He blocked that too with a grunt, his new wound throbbing from its brush with Stick’s closed fist. Matt didn’t have anything much worse than a scraped knee to compare the pain of an open wound to, but he managed to work in the thought amid their sparring that he hadn’t expected it to _burn_.

He ducked under Stick’s next punch and went for his first counterattack: an uppercut to the old man’s jaw. Just before it could connect, Stick reeled back out of the way. Matt had no time to regain his balance from the missed shot before a jab collided with his solar plexus, knocking him backwards a few steps.

Matt had almost never been tempted to call Stick “nice,” but that’s almost what he was—or, what he did was, anyway—when he passed up the chance to knock Matt all the way off his feet. Why the sudden mercy? Matt drew in a deeper breath to steady himself in terms of more than just balance during this brief second of respite. Blood dripped from the cut on his arm, drawing converging rivulets of wetness along his skin. Pain ripped down and into and outward. Matt grimaced.

For a moment the ever-shifting sketch his senses made of the basement blinked off as his attention got caught in the searing agony of his arm. Unmistakably, now, it was spreading. He barely had time to process this before sharp knuckles from the void met his temple and he was staggering sideways. He raised his arms instinctively to protect his head.

“Don’t lose focus, boy,” Stick’s voice warned him from somewhere vaguely to his left.

Matt yelled, a short, wordless burst of frustration. He recalibrated his focus enough to make out Stick’s footsteps circling him, if not much of anything else. He turned toward the sound, keeping his guard up toward Stick. He could barely be certain his right hand was actually balled up in a fist; all of the nerve endings from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers devoted their signals to the transmission of a single sensation Matt was no longer certain could be glossed by the word “pain.”

A low kick swept his legs out from under him, and he fell back, meeting the floor with his hands. He yelped and rolled over onto his good side. Clutching his arm to his chest like it would fall to pieces if he let go, real tears crowded the corners of his eyes. “Stick…,” he pleaded. All his determination to prove he wasn’t a baby, that he could fight through a beating, had vanished. He was just a boy, and, by God, it hurt so bad.

Stick ground a boot into Matt’s injured arm. Matt screamed. “Stop! Stop!” His arm exploded in fire, tendrils snaking up his neck and across his upper chest now. He was consumed by it; the pain crowded out everything else.

“Get up, boy.” Stick dug his toe in harder. “You have to fight through the pain. That’s the only way you’re getting the antidote.”

_Antidote?_ “There was poison on that knife?” Matt asked faintly. He shuddered, eyes rolling nearly back into his head.

“Ding ding ding! Jesus, all that studying’s not doing you much good, is it? Why else did you think your arm was shutting down?” Stick sneered, but it was entirely lost on a Matt who had no hope of hearing sounds that small and then making conjectures as to their meaning. “I said _get up_!” Stick barked. He pulled Matt up by his wounded arm.

Matt cried out. He scrabbled to get his knees under him and relieve some of the weight put on his arm. He collapsed on his shins, and Stick released his grip.

“Please…” Tears fell in a constant stream down his face now. Spittle flecked the one word he repeated over and over. “Please…,” he begged from the floor.

Stick recoiled in disgust. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, capped plastic vial. He threw it at Matt’s face with a mixture of disappointment and malice. It struck his cheek, bounced off, and rolled a few feet away. “Drink, you little shit. Someday you’ll need to fight through worse and it’ll be the difference between life and death. I don’t know why I’m wasting my time on someone who’s not gonna pull through.”

Stick picked up his cane from where he’d leant it against the wall before their training. Without saying anything further, he climbed the stairs up out of the basement and left Matt alone.

Still crying, Matt swept the floor around him with his left hand, searching for the tiny bottle of antidote. His fingers wrapped around it after a fraught few seconds and he sobbed in relief. He unscrewed the cap while balancing it in the same hand, and finally tipped it back into his open mouth.

Stupid. He’d been stupid. Of course it wouldn’t magically clear out all the pain right away. He laid back down on the cold concrete, hugging his arm to himself. He forced breaths in and out of his mouth for something to focus on. He stayed like that for a while, alone and waiting it out.

With no way to keep track of time, Matt didn’t know how long it took before some semblance of normal feeling returned to his arm. He moved it experimentally, and was pleased to finally have some proof the antidote was working. If he’d gotten it sooner maybe it wouldn’t have been all that bad, he thought. Stick was right; he’d been stupid for not realizing that was the nature of the game all along. Next time he’d show him he could do it. That he wasn’t just wasting his time. Matt would show him he was worthy of praise.


End file.
